


Masterpiece

by scarslikeconstxllations



Series: The Miraculous Ladybug Collection [9]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged up characters, College AU, Fluff, Gay, M/M, Marc is cute and shy, Miraculous Ladybug - Freeform, Nathaniel Krutzberg, Nathaniel paints him, No Sex, One-Shot, Other characters are MIA, PG, Painting, Romance, SO MUCH FLUFF, Writing, artist, cuteness, marc anciel - Freeform, miraculous - Freeform, much gay, they're in college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 15:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16200566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarslikeconstxllations/pseuds/scarslikeconstxllations
Summary: When Marc Anciel falls asleep under a willow tree at Université Françoise Dupont, he doesn't expect to be painted by his favourite artist.





	Masterpiece

**Author's Note:**

> A.n. So this was a piece that I wrote for the Ladyblog on the Miraculous Amino. :) I decided to post it here in case anyone else was interested in reading it. Hope you enjoy!

_Invisible: Unable to be seen; not visible to the eye._

It is physically impossible for a human being to be truly invisible. The fact that they are solid objects with pigments of colour makes them easily detectable to the eye. However, as Marc Anciel sat alone on a bench at Université Françoise Dupont, a rather prestigious university in Paris, he pondered the thought that maybe he truly was invisible.

It wasn’t that people didn’t notice him. He received stares, sometimes the occasional smile, to let him know that people were acknowledging his existence. But staring at someone and truly seeing them are two entirely different things. People may have looked at him, but they didn’t truly see him. Judgments flew left and right, tantalising his mind. What was the point of being visible at all if people wouldn’t take the time to look deeper, to look for who he was deep inside?

Rubbing the black nail polish on his thumb gently, Marc attempted to block out the burning stares and hushed whispers. For as long as he could remember, people would make assumptions about him. They thought he was strange, different, too shy, and weird. No one dared to give him the benefit of the doubt. His outward appearance, they believed, was a direct representation of who he was inside.

It hurt. It hurt knowing that everyone was judging him by only knowing half of his story. He had hopes, dreams, passions. But instead of letting them free from their cage, he locked them all up and threw away the key. If people couldn’t hide their judgements of him without knowing his story, how would they feel when they knew about his hopes and dreams?

He wanted to write. There was something so beautiful about being able to craft words across a page; to paint them in tranquillity like a skilful artist does to a blank canvas. He dreamt of creating his own worlds for people to enjoy. But there was one person in particular that he wanted to write for.

He wanted to write for the boy with fiery red hair like molten lava and blue eyes like the pristine waters of a crystal lake. He wanted to write him pages and pages of words, crafted from his own mind. He wanted to write something that the artist could draw with a flick of his paintbrush. Together, they would create a masterpiece.

But alas, Marc was sure that the artist’s heart was stolen someone else. And even so, an artist of his magnitude could never allow a writer of his poor skill to create something magnificent with him.

He stared at the pages before him, ink bleeding due to the tears falling from his eyes. He had so many things he wanted to do with his writing, but he lacked the courage to do so. Doubts swirled through his mind, poisoning his thoughts. Bottling up his creative spirit, he attempted to stand and blend in with the crowds of people milling around the halls. For once, he actually wished he could become invisible.

****

* * *

If there was one thing that Nathaniel Kurtzberg loved about being an artist, it was the ability to express the innermost thoughts that he couldn’t dare to describe in words. The therapeutic motion of a paintbrush across a canvas, being filled with a story of his own creation, was something that he would always appreciate and never take for granted.

But as he stared down at his current piece, he only felt disappointment. The most pressing issue was that it simply ceased to exist. He was peering at a completely blank surface, void of everything it should have had spilling onto it.

There were so many things he wanted to say; to express. There were so many words floating through his mind in an endless sea that he desperately longed to get out in the form of splashes of colour and twisted lines. He wanted to slice open a part of his soul and to let it bleed onto the blank canvas, pouring every thought that flitted inside his head onto the surface.

But for some unidentifiable reason, the canvas stayed blank.

What was happening to him? Was he not inspired? No, that couldn’t be the case. There were plenty of things he wanted to do. So why could he not just do them?

It was as if he was completely without a muse.

Frustrated, Nathaniel brought his fist down on the blank canvas. He watched it topple to the floor, the easel crashing down with it. He almost considered kicking a few paint cans on top of it but decided to control his temper. He needed to think; to clear his head. Perhaps some fresh air would do him good.

He headed to the back of the school, where students often came between class to mingle and relax on the benches in front of a small fountain that was recently placed there. He pulled out his sketchpad and sat down on a bench, scanning the scenery for something that would catch his eye. His intention was, of course, to draw the inspiration as soon as it came. And it did come, just not as he expected it to.

When Nathaniel saw the small, dark-haired boy curled up under a willow tree, he was at first puzzled as to why the sight was so compelling to him. But the longer he stared at it, the more he began to realise why.

The boy’s black hair shimmered in the sunlight filtering through the branches of the willow. The light caressed his skin with the gentlest of glows, making soft patterns on his light skin. The green branches of the willow fell over him like a waterfall, adding a peaceful touch to the scene. The lush grass below him cushioned his small form, which was curled in a sleeping position. In his hands, he tightly held what looked to be a journal, his fists clutching it as if it would run away from him.

Curiously, Nathaniel studied the boy for a bit longer before his pencil found its way to his sketchpad. Before he knew it, he was drawing a detailed sketch of the boy under the tree, his hand flying too quickly for his mind to catch up with. Not long after, Nathaniel had a completed sketch of the boy beneath the willow.

But as he mentally critiqued the sketch, he realised that it wasn’t enough. He needed more. He needed to capture the light gracing the boy’s skin, the grass cushioning his sleeping form, the willow caressing his face, the red of his sweatshirt. All the colours needed to be painted so that his form would be expressed in detail for the sheer beauty of it.

Making up his mind, Nathaniel headed back inside the building. School hours had long since ended, and the occasional student would pass by to make their way to their extracurricular activities. Nathaniel brushed passed them all, his mind set on his destination.

Arriving at the art studio that he frequently used, he noted with sheer joy that it was empty. Setting down his sketchpad on a table, he picked up the easel and blank canvas. Gathering some paint, a palette, and a brush, he got to work.

He was certain that with a few hours, the formerly blank canvas would be covered with a masterpiece.

****

* * *

When Marc woke up after a few hours, he realised that he had fallen asleep on school grounds. Embarrassed warmth crept into his cheeks, staining them a dark red. He immediately stood, brushing the grass off his dishevelled form. He quickly checked to make sure he had his journal and was relieved to find that it hadn’t left the confines of his arms.

Deciding that he should get back inside to gather the rest of his belongings, he headed into the back door of the school. The halls were mostly deserted, and he nearly sighed in relief at the revelation. The burning stares he typically received would subside until the following morning.

As he headed in the direction of his locker to grab his things, he passed by the art studio. He typically kept his head down as he walked by, knowing that a certain red-head liked to create there. But his curiosity got the best of him, and he poked his head inside.

Marc wasn’t expecting it to be empty. When he noticed that it was, the temptation to spy on the art student’s latest creations overpowered him. Succumbing to the temptation, he slipped inside the room.

All sorts of objects were cluttered in the space. Tubes and cans of paint, easels, blank canvases, all different kinds of paper, various art tools and trinkets, painted pottery, sketches, and various other things filled the room. Marc skimmed over them all, his eyes trained to search for the signature he had memorised. Sure enough, his eyes came to rest on an easel in the centre of the room, which was proudly displaying a canvas with fresh paint.

His eyes lighting up, Marc practically ran over to the space. Only, he wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

On the easel, plain as the eye could see, was himself. He was painted in acrylics, sleeping under the willow tree as he had been earlier. The paint was clearly still wet, meaning the artist was still around. A feeling of dread washed over him. Who was watching him as he slept? Was it some sort of joke to make fun of the way he was sleeping on school grounds? Why would someone do something that elaborate? Panic set in, and he took a few stumbling steps back. But what he wasn’t prepared for was to collide with someone’s chest.

Whirling around defensively, Marc came face-to-face with none other than Nathaniel Kurtzberg, the boy he was enamoured with.

Fear instantly filled his eyes, and he nearly crashed into the painting behind him. Nathaniel’s arm shot out and gripped his wrist, pulling him away from the easel to avoid the possible disaster. Embarrassment heating his cheeks, Marc avoided his gaze.

“May I ask what you’re doing here?” Nathaniel asked cooly.

It was by no means his art studio, but he had every right to ask since he spent the majority of his time there. He recognised the boy in front of him as Marc Anciel, another student at the university who he shared a few lectures with. He was also the boy that Nathaniel had painted so vividly, and to his luck, the painting was in plain view behind them.

Marc had never once stepped foot in the studio, so he couldn’t blame Nathaniel for asking. “I-I was just passing by and I saw this painting . . .”

Realisation sparked in Nathaniel’s eyes, and his cheeks flared a rosy pink. “I can explain . . .” he trailed off softly, searching Marc’s face for any sign that would give away his emotion.

Marc swallowed thickly, forcing himself to look Nathaniel directly in the eye. “Please do. F-Forgive me, but I’m a bit confused . . .”

Nathaniel nodded, running a hand over his face with a tired sigh. It was then that Marc noticed the slight dark circles under his eyes, not prominent enough to be seen right away but present nonetheless. Nathaniel awkwardly ran a hand through his red hair, trying to come up with an excuse for why he had painted someone he barely knew in such great detail. When he finally did think of something, it was only the truth, and he had to force himself to utter it.

“I saw you sleeping under the tree outside a few hours earlier. It was purely accidental, trust me,” Nathaniel was quick to say defensively. “You looked so peaceful . . . and from an artist’s perspective, the light angle was just right, the colours complemented each other so nicely . . . So I drew a sketch of you.”

Marc’s head spun. “You drew me . . . while I was asleep under the tree.”

Nathaniel nodded, embarrassment clear on his face. “But after I sketched you, I realised how unsatisfying it was. I wanted to do more with the . . . art which I had discovered. So I came here and spent a few hours making that.” He gestured to the canvas behind them. “I know this sounds extremely creepy since we don’t really know each other. I promise my intentions were just to gain some inspiration for the future.”

He was rambling then, and it was in that instant that Marc realised that he wasn’t the only one feeling awkward in their situation. It took him a bit to fully process what Nathaniel was saying, but when he did he came to the conclusion that Nathaniel Kurtzberg had just called him art.

A scarlet blush crawled across Marc’s cheeks. “I-I don’t mind that you sketched me, or painted me for that matter.” He turned to admire the artist’s work once more, the blush on his cheeks only darkening. “Not to sound conceited . . . but this painting . . . it’s beautiful.”

Nathaniel knew that Marc was talking about the quality of the work, not the subject of the painting. He didn’t take Marc as someone who was overly-confident in that way. A small graced his lips, and he inclined his head slightly. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I still feel like a creep for painting you without your knowledge,” he said honestly.

“Well now I know about it, so you don’t have to feel like a creep anymore,” Marc assured him. He hesitated before asking his next question. “Is it really that hard to find the motivation to paint or draw?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “It’s not the motivation that’s the hard part most of the time. It’s finding the inspiration to use for your art; finding that muse.” He gestured to Marc’s journal, which was clutched tightly in his arms. “You’re a writer, aren’t you? It’s kind of the same thing with writing and art. Both writers and artists search for that inspiration to allow them to create something new.”

Marc felt another embarrassed blush creep across his cheeks. “H-How did you know I was a writer?” he stuttered, feeling stupid the second the question left his lips.

Nathaniel smiled sheepishly. “Whenever I see you around, you usually have that journal in your hands. I just assumed . . .” he trailed off. “My apologies if the assumption was incorrect.”

Marc shook his head quickly. “It was right. I just didn’t expect anyone to notice. Most people just think I’m weird or obsessive for carrying around this journal.”

“Well that’s nonsense,” Nathaniel said with a perplexed frown. “That’s like saying I’m strange for carrying my sketchpad around. You never know exactly when inspiration will strike.”

“Exactly!” Marc blurted out before he could stop himself. His cheeks burned immediately after the outburst, and Nathaniel chuckled in amusement. “Sorry,” he whispered, “it’s just that . . . Most people don’t understand that. I’m really glad that you do.”

Nathaniel rubbed the back of his neck. “In another way, it’s kind of more background as to why I sketched you in the first place. I just saw you lying there and everything seemed so /perfect/ that I had to do something about it.”

_Perfect._

Nathaniel had just indirectly called him perfect, in addition to referring to him as art. Never before had he been complemented in such a way. Whether it was intentional or not didn’t matter, because it still carried the pleasant feeling of appreciation with it.

Noticing his sudden silence, Nathaniel frowned in concern. “Are you alright?”

Marc blinked rapidly a few times. “Actually . . . No. At least, not yet. I have to show you something . . .”

“What is it?” Nathaniel asked curiously.

“My journal,” Marc blurted before he could back down.

“Oh,” Nathaniel murmured.

“I-It’s not because of the painting or anything like that. I’ve been wanting to show you my writing for a while because . . . well . . .” Frustrated at his lack of ability to say what he wanted to, Marc thrust the journal into Nathaniel’s hands. “Please just look at it.” He had already opened Pandora’s box, so he minds well deal with the consequences.

Nathaniel gingerly took the journal as if Marc had handed him a priceless artefact. Gently, he opened the book and carefully fingered the pages, his index finger tracing the walls of text presented to him. Marc quivered in anticipation beside him, hands flexing repeatedly to try and calm his nerves.

Finally, Nathaniel looked down to meet Marc’s gaze. “Are these . . . sequences to go along with my comics on the university website?”

Nathaniel, being an active member of the art club at Université Françoise Dupont, had taken a liking to posting short comic strips on the university website. There was a section for clubs and organisations, and Nathaniel took pride in maintaining the art club section. His most recent work was a tribute to the LGBTQ+ community, one where a male supervillain proceeds to fall in love with a male civilian who stumbles head-first into one of his heists.

What Nathaniel had been reading were the words to accompany his sketches, which only had a few splashes of dialogue here and there. He gazed at Marc in amazement, his eyes shining with mirth. 

Marc, however, didn’t know how to read the situation. Instinctively, he assumed Nathaniel was upset with him for writing a script without his permission. Apologies tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have stepped out of line like that. I know I didn’t ask for permission and I’m really sorry. I was originally never going to show them to you, but the opportunity came up and I . . .”

Nathaniel tilted his head to the side and regarded him with curiosity. “Does anyone else know about this?” he asked quizzically.

Marc stopped his frantic rambling to shake his head no. “You’re the only one.”

Nathaniel hummed thoughtfully. He appeared to be contemplating something, and Marc didn’t dare to interrupt him. “If you’re interested, I would like to work on a collaborative project with you for my latest work.”

Marc’s eyes lit up at the mention of _Unfaithful Thief_ , the strip Nathaniel had been working on. “Y-You would really want to collaborate with me?” he asked incredulously. He couldn’t fathom why an artist of Nathaniel’s extensive skill set would want to work with someone like himself.

Nathaniel nodded. “From what I can see here, you’re an excellent writer with a substantial amount of skill. I think we can really make something amazing together.”

Excitement was written over Marc’s face. “R-Really?” Upon seeing Nathaniel’s bemused nod, he quickly composed himself. “I-I mean, I would love that.”

Nathaniel laughed, and it was one of the loveliest sounds Marc had ever heard. “How about I give you my number and you can text me all the times that you’re free throughout the day? We can set up a coffee date to go over the details later on.”

_Date._

There was no mistaking it, Nathaniel had said the word _date._ True that it was rather commonly used, but it still sent a flurry of butterflies amiss in Marc’s stomach. He attempted to compose himself once more. “T-That sounds good to me,” he managed to say.

“Great!” Nathaniel flipped to a blank page in Marc’s journal and pulled the familiar pencil out from behind his left ear. He scribbled his number on the page and closed the book, handing it back to him. “My number’s there when you’re ready.”

Marc nodded, his face burning with nerves and excitement. “T-Thank you.”

Nathaniel laughed once more. “No, thank you. Not only have you managed to inspire the creative side of me, but you gave me a way to continue my comic strip with the aid of a talented co-creator.” He gave Marc a sincere smile, and it nearly melted the dark-haired boy into a puddle right on the spot. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

And with that, the artist escaped the confines of the room, leaving Marc with his lingering presence. As he stared at the painting before him and traced the number scrawled on his journal’s page, he couldn’t help but think that they were going to finally create a masterpiece together.

**Author's Note:**

> A.n. So much gay and fluff. T^T My heart. Comments and kudos are appreciated. It makes me feel like my work is valued. Thanks for reading. <3


End file.
